Never was there so methodical a man. He lived by the clock, and with him one day exactly resembled another. He rose at a certain hour and retired precisely when the hand on the clock indicated another. His meals were always regular, and he had stated hours for walking, when he went out, whether it was wet or fine, sunny or foggy. The man was like a machine, and George, when living with him in his early days, had often found these restrictions irksome. It was one o'clock when Brendon called, and Mr. Ireland had just finished his luncheon. At two precisely he would leave the house for his one hour's constitutional. Brendon was aware of this, and had timed his visit accordingly. Nevertheless, Ireland looked at his watch and mentioned the fact. "I can only give you an hour, George," he said. "You know my habits." "An hour will be sufficient," replied Brendon, taking the one chair. "You are not looking very well, sir," he added, noting the fagged air of the old man. "I have not been sleeping so soundly as usual," rejoined Ireland, producing a box of cigars and passing them. "At my age, and I am now seventy-five, I can't be expected to enjoy my bed so much as a young person. Take a cigar." "The old brand," said Brendon, selecting one. "I never vary," replied his guardian, gravely. "Pass that matchbox, George. Have you a light? Good. Now we can talk for the next fifty-five minutes. What is it?" As time was short, and Mr. Ireland would be sure to terminate the interview exactly at the stated hour, George plunged immediately into the business which had brought him hither. "I wish to hear the story of my parents," he said deliberately. The cigar fell from the fat fingers of Ireland, and he stared in amazement at the young man. "It is rather late in the day for that, is it not?" he asked, picking up the cigar and recovering himself. "Better late than never," quoted George, puffing a cloud of smoke. "A proverb is no answer," said Ireland, testily. "Then, if you wish to know, sir, I am in love." "That is no answer, either." "It will lead to a very explicit answer," rejoined the young man, coolly. "Love leads to marriage, and in my case marriage cannot take place unless I know that I am legitimate." "Of course you are. I have always maintained that you are." "What proof have you?" asked George, eagerly. Ireland hesitated and wiped his mouth in quite an unnecessary manner with a red silk handkerchief. "Your father always declared that Miss Lockwood was his lawful wife, and treated her with every respect." "Did my father ever tell you where the marriage was celebrated?" "No; I never asked, nor did your grandfather Lockwood. It was not till after your mother's death that Lord Derrington denied the marriage. Then Mr. Vane was in Italy and never troubled about the matter." "He should have done so, for my sake," said George, indignantly.